


A Series of Short Moments

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Body Horror, Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gore, Immolation, M/M, Pregnancy, Sleep Deprivation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: A collection of short prompts around Caleb, Astrid and Eodwulf.





	1. Wulf and Jester + Wanting Caleb

“Eodwulf,” Jester says, gently. She’s watching him from the doorway, and he _freezes_ at being caught. “Where are you _going_?”

Wulf looks up from the _Teleportation Circle_ he’s scrawling in his room, and gives Jester a lopsided, insincere smile. “I’m going back to Rexxentrum, Lavorre.” He tenses his arms, ready to begin casting at her if her hands reach for her holy symbol to try to stop him.

Jester tilts her head, leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes are kind. “Do you… do you miss _Astrid_?” She says Astrid’s name all wrong in her lilting Nicodrani accent, and something about it makes him feel prickly, all _wrong_ inside.

“… Ja,” he sighs. He imagines Astrid in the moonlight—her considering smile, her dark skin, those freckles along the bridge of her nose, and his heart clenches _painfully_. “I can’t leave her alone with him, alright? I can’t leave her like Bren did.” His face twists bitterly as he says _Bren_.

Jester bites the inside of her cheek, and raises her hand. Wulf stiffens, but she only pulls a loose strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “That’s not _fair_ ,” she says, softly. Her hands bunch up in her yellow dress. “And now you’re leaving _him_. That isn’t… that isn’t right _either._ ”

Wulf barks out a quiet laugh, and looks at her with disbelieving eyes. “I’m _really_ no good for him, Lavorre.” He runs a hand through his black hair, and shakes his head slightly, hating the forgiving expression on her freckled blue face. “I can’t just… I’m doing him a _favour_ , okay?”

Jester looks down to the _Teleportation Circle_. “Oh, Wulf,” she says, her voice a little sad. “But… does it _matter_ if you’re no good for him?” Wulf raises his eyebrows, and Jester puts her hands up defensively, not for casting but in a _hold up, let me explain_ kind of gesture. “I don’t think you’re no good, but even if you _were_ , who cares, you know?” Jester lets out this little half-laugh, and for the first time, her face becomes a little bitter. “He… he thinks he’s no good for _me_ , you know?”

“Maybe he isn’t.” Wulf shrugs. His smile as a little mean when she shoots a glare in his direction. “You deserve a… deserve a gentle love story, Lavorre, even if you’re a heretic and a traitor. You can do better.”

Jester raises her eyebrows. “I’m not an Empire _citizen_ ,” she pouts. “How can I be a _traitor_ if—”

“Committing treasonous and criminal acts on Empire soil,” Wulf says, crossing his arms and shaking his head. His mean smile widens. “Keeping that beacon for yourself, worshipping that half-god of yours… it’s bold.” He scoffs a little at the proud smile playing on her lips as he speaks. “It’s unfortunate that I’d kill you for it the second you’re across that border.”

Jester tilts her head at him, biting her bottom lip. “I’m _pretty_ strong, but sure.” Wulf wants to maybe smirk at her doubting voice. “And I _can’t_ do better, you know?” He furrows his eyebrows at her, and she sighs. “It’s… I’m not a _prize_ , that only some very moral person gets to marry as a reward for living a very good life. Those little half-moments where we’re walking, and he looks to me, and the sun catches in his hair, and it glows?” Wulf stills, remembering _exactly_ what she’s talking about, from back when they were just kids, and she looks at him knowingly. “Those little seconds when his eyes are _bright_ and he forgets to _hate_ himself for looking too long at my dress or my bare shoulders?” She smiles, and it’s a little melancholic. “I _chase_ those moments, Wulf.”

“I don’t—” He cuts himself, hearing the trembling around his words. It isn’t—this isn’t— _fuck._

Jester runs a hand through her hair, and her face kind of twists. “I’m sure he wishes that for _you_ too, you know? That you don’t use his… his love to _hate_ yourself.” Her eyes look to the _Teleportation Circle_ again. “Or use it to justify _hurting_ yourself.”

Wulf thinks of Bren’s eyes, and Bren’s smile, and Bren’s face. He thinks of the way those pale blue eyes reflect the sunlight, and how his hair, longer now, frames his pale, delicate face. He thinks about how the purple suits him, and how _good_ he looks with the scruff. He imagines a future where he wakes up next to him, and Bren squints with one eye open. _It’s so early. Go to bed, Schatz_.

_Schatz_. Bren, looking at him across the table, with Master Ikithon sitting between them. A soft half-smile plays on his face. Astrid’s eyes dance between them, and even Master Ikithon’s backhanded compliments aren’t enough to dissuade this bright feeling in his chest.

_Schatz_. Bren, making _Dancing Lights_ , and them, swaying in the dark together, hands intertwined. Bren laughs in his ear as Wulf makes a joke. He doesn’t remember the joke now, but he remembers Bren’s head against the crook of his neck.

_Schatz._

_Schatz._

Schatz.

Wulf shakes his head, feeling this painful constricting feeling in his chest, and snaps, “Get out of my _fucking_ head.” He slams his fist down against the hardwood, and casts _Teleportation Circle_.

As he feels himself dematerialize, he sees Jester’s lips curl into a helpless, heartbroken smile. Her hair moves slightly from the force of his magic, and she crosses her arms, her body trembling. She’s so _upset_ , to lose _him_ —

Wulf feels cold arms around him. “It’s okay, Eodwulf,” Master Ikithon murmurs, and Wulf realizes he’s shaking. “You can tell me how you failed me in the morning.”

“... Danke.” Wulf closes his eyes, and loses himself to the forced slumber.


	2. Astrid/Caleb + "You are my sunshine."

Astrid is standing in front of him, and she’s pressing him gently against the wall. He allows her, how can he not _allow_ her? She’s wearing this billowing red shirt and black trousers, and she’s _pushing him into the wall_ , and pressing her body up against his. “You’re lovely,” she says, a hand against his cheek. She says it like she’s addressing a particularly well-made table—her voice is matter-of-fact and dispassionate, like she’s simply stating _fact_. Her hands curl around his shoulders, a finger teasingly under the straps of the leather holster on each side.

Caleb flushes under her praise, and she smiles, leaning closer and pressing a kiss against his jawline. “Astrid,” he murmurs, his voice a little uneven. They’re standing in an alley, and the flickering lantern makes her brown skin glow and her dark eyes glitter. She looks _heavenly_ , and he reaches for her with his trembling, burnt fingers. “You know that I’m not.” Shame tinges his words, and he closes his eyes for a moment, unable to take the intensity behind her heated gaze.

“You are.” Astrid’s voice is so fucking _certain_. “You’re so lovely your new friends are tricking you, tricking you into hating the Empire and hating Master Ikithon and hating me.” Caleb avoids her gaze, and she doesn’t speak again until he finally looks at her. “You’re the perfect fucking wizard,” she breathes, and then she’s mouthing along his jawline, standing on her toes. He would be endeared right now if he wasn’t breathless, his hands reaching around to run down her sides and dig into her waist. “Come home, Bren, please.”

Caleb feels her words as she speaks against his skin, and it’s almost too much to bear. “Do we have to talk about this _now_?” It feels like they’ve been having this argument ever since he ran into her here, in this city. She’s so… _sure_ that it’s the Mighty Nein lying to him, and _if only you could open your eyes, Liebling_ —

“I think we might have to.” Her low voice is slightly rougher, and Caleb closes his eyes as he feels her leave a mark against his neck. “You’re my… everything, Schatz.” She sounds almost like she’s _praying_. “You’re my… you’re my home. You’re my truth. You’re my sunshine. I need you to trust me.”

Caleb smiles down at her sadly. “Can’t I just be the person you fuck for tonight?”

Astrid looks at him for a charged moment, and then sighs. “For tonight,” she murmurs. She looks a little heartbroken, but before Caleb can comment, she claims his mouth, and he allows her to have it.

Later, she claims his body, and he allows her that, too.


	3. Astrid/Caleb + Awe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for torture.

Caleb looks up at Astrid, at the sharpness of her smile, and he tilts his head up to her. “Ah,” he murmurs, his voice ragged. “I suppose I should’ve expected this.”

“You _really_ should’ve, Schatz.” She leans forward, and Caleb realizes from his tensed arms that they’re tied up behind him, far too firm for any kind of casting. He’s sitting in a chair in front of a wooden table, and Astrid is leaning towards him from his side, her dark eyes careful and assessing. The only source of light in the room is a lantern, and it plays so wonderfully against her dark skin—she’s cold and brittle, but this warm red-yellow-orange light makes her seem bright, full of life. The shadows are stark along the sharp edges of her face, and he remembers his hands against her cheeks, in their childhood. She was softer, then.

She looks fucking _ghostly_ right now. “Caleb Widogast,” she muses, and her matter-of-fact, almost _pitying_ voice seems to dismantle his new identity easily, like an artifact she’s casting _Dispel Magic_ on. Suddenly the name feels flat, the syllables strange and stumbling, and he burns with embarrassment. “I prefer Bren.”

“I know you do,” Caleb retorts, and he wonders how long he can fool her, fool her with this fake confidence, with this gaze he’s _barely_ holding with her. “It has a… has a nice ring to it, after all.”

Astrid’s face is inches away from his, and _gottverdammt_ , she’s a fucking goddess against the flickering of the lantern. She pulls out a little dagger strapped to her belt, and folds up her red sleeves, reaching out with her other hand and running her hand through his red hair. She pulls him close, and rests his forehead against hers. “Oh, Schatz,” she sighs, and she breathes deeply, like she’s catching his scent. “Ink, and paper, and incense. Herbs?” Astrid grins. “You’re into _tea_ , now?”

“Something like that,” he says, trying to even out his voice.

“Maybe one of those freaks you travel with,” Astrid muses. The dagger is against his neck, and the metal is cool against his skin, which always runs hot. “Will you be good for me?”

Caleb tries not to tremble, and from Astrid’s look, he fails. “Am I ever?”

She sighs. “There’s a first for everything.” Her smile turns wolfish, and it’s a little bit of an act, a kind of theatre, more Wulf than her, but he can appreciate it. “But not today, huh?” The dagger presses in, and Caleb closes his eyes. “It’s going to be a long night, darling.”


	4. Bren, Astrid and Wulf + Sleep-Deprived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for sleep deprivation, torture, mild body horror and child abuse.

Bren is so _tired_.

He braces himself on the railing as Astrid tries miserably to cast _Acid Splash_ , again and again. Her somatic gestures are nearly perfect, but there’s this twitch with her thumb she just can’t perfect, this little jerk to her movement that prevents the acid from being conjured, and Bren’s arms are _trembling_ as they hold up his body weight, he’s been awake for so _long_ —

“Master Ikithon.” Astrid’s voice is a little wrecked, and he can see the tiredness in her, too. She blinks away the weariness in her eyes, and looks to Bren and Eodwulf, watching her from the side. “Please don’t punish them for my… for my failures, I don’t—”

“You think I’m punishing _them_ , Ishild?” Astrid stiffens as he calls her by her last name, and Master Ikithon’s cold eyes watch her minute movements. “Bren has a tuning session tomorrow, and if you are unable to _perfect_ this cantrip…” He sighs, and looks to Bren. “The side effects of the crystals can be strange if one is not in peak physical condition to receive them.”

Bren stills, and looks to his wrapped arms. The last time, the blood was _leaking_ from the cuts, for days and days, and that was when he was _well-rested_ … He can feel panic start to show in his face, and he tries to school his expression.  
  
“Get it together,” Wulf snaps at Astrid, crossing his arms to stop himself from reaching for Bren’s swaying frame. He can’t touch Bren with Master Ikithon watching like that, he knows better—they’ll be punished in some other unique way, at some other time.

Astrid looks _miserable_ , and tries again to conjure. Master Ikithon shakes his head with disgust as the acid sputters to the ground, and she looks like she’s near _crying_. “I—I don’t—”

“Astrid,” Bren murmurs, and she looks to him. He can see the tears rimming her exhausted eyes, and he gives her a weak smile. “I… I believe in you. You can do it. It’s… it’s okay if it takes all night, okay?” His arms are shaking a little, and Wulf looks at Bren incredulously, his jaw clenching just slightly. Ikithon looks almost _amused_. “It would just be a better lesson for me, ja?”

She stares at him for a long moment, and then exhales, her breath trembling. She makes the somatic gestures slowly, and arcane words come out carefully from her lips—they don’t rip out easily for her like they do with Bren, and her words don’t have the raw _essence_ of Wulf’s, but she’s careful, deliberate, and after a tense moment, acid flicks out gracefully from where she’s directing her palms to the dummy.

Bren _beams_ , walking down the steps with trepidation and uneven footsteps to her. Astrid pulls him into a hug, and they lean into each other, holding the other up. “You did it,” he says, and kisses the top of her head. “I knew you could.” She’s trembling in his embrace, holding him up, and he smiles when she meets his gaze, her face slightly flushing.

“The power of love,” Wulf says dryly, his arms still crossed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ikithon says, giving him a distasteful look. Wulf turns more prickly under his gaze, and Ikithon almost _smiles_ , before turning to Astrid. “You did satisfactorily, but next time, don’t waste away the hours meant for sleep.” Astrid looks away at his sharp criticism, and Bren intertwines her hand with his. “You all may sleep, it’s a long day tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Bren murmurs, as they walk back to their rooms, hand in hand. Wulf follows behind, watching them with a careful gaze. “You did so well.”

“Danke,” Astrid murmurs, distracted, and he pauses in the hall to give her a soft kiss on the forehead. She smiles, and for the first time it seems _real_ , and Bren thinks she’s going to be okay. She’ll be okay, beyond this horrible day. He hasn’t broken her, broken _them_ , their relationship, yet.

They continue to walk, and Bren promises himself Master Ikithon never will.


	5. Wulf/Astrid + Fake-Married/Real Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for dehumanizing discussion of pregnancy and violence.

Wulf watches Astrid talk to Archmage Vess DeRogna with that pleasant smile on her face, her face soft and inviting. She’s so damn _good_. Wulf knows she’s reciting her lines with that bright-eyed geniality, making Master Ikithon look good to his colleagues. Her dark green dress is sleeved all the way down her arms, covering her bruises and scars, and she looks practically alien with those dangling, pearled earrings beside her face. Her hair isn’t slick with sweat or blood—it’s smooth, and combed against her head, and the make-up covers the discolouration along her right cheek from the bruise there, making her brown skin look smooth and perfect.

Astrid’s gaze slides to him, and he stands up, walking to where the two women are. He’s wearing a nice dress shirt, a grey waistcoat, black trousers, a nice black suit jacket—it’s a little rumpled, a little unbuttoned, Wulf _knows_ it’s useless to try to hide all the ways that he’s a little cracked, imperfect, and besides, he knows he looks _good_ disheveled—and his shoes click against the hardwood floor. “Schatz,” he murmurs, and she intertwines her hand in his, a smile gracing her painted lips.

“Eodwulf,” Astrid says, “Let me introduce you to Frau DeRogna, it’s been such a _delight_.” Light and pretty.

Wulf thinks about what a _waste_ this is—DeRogna knows they’re Vollstreckers, penniless rubes plucked out with Master Ikithon’s discerning eye to serve the Cerberus Assembly like loyal dogs—but he gives her a charming smile regardless. If the archmages want to watch them play pretend at class, who is he to deny them? What _can_ he deny? “It’s an honour, Frau DeRogna.”

DeRogna smiles, her eyes raking over Wulf curiously. Waiting to see what Ikithon’s little footsoldier will do next. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says indulgently, and Wulf has to shift his jaw slightly to prevent his smile from curling wider and becoming that half-feral way it tends to get. “Your wife has been _singing_ your master’s praises.”

Wulf raises their joined hands and kisses hers, and looks to the ring for a moment. “We owe him everything,” he says, his genuine and grateful and open. Fucking _simpering_. “I never would’ve met the love of my life were it not for him. We would’ve… passed each other along, despite living in the same backwater.”

DeRogna’s eyes dance between them. “Archmage Ikithon has done great services for us all,” she agrees, and her eyes dart for a moment to Master Ikithon, discussing something with Oremid Hass. “Would you two excuse me for a moment?” Astrid opens her mouth to respond, but DeRogna doesn’t wait, already walking away.

Astrid looks to her flowing green and black robes for a moment, to her elegant jewels adorning her neck, and she says quietly, her breath a little uneven, “ _Fuck_.”

Wulf gives her a sidelong look, and he squeezes her hand gently. “You okay?”

Astrid looks down, and hisses, “She kept asking me about _children_.” She shakes her head a little, her other hand rising to fiddle with the necklace along her neck. “Kept—kept—”

“That,” Wulf says, pleasantly, “is never going to happen. I’m not letting them do that to you, Astrid.” He imagines DeRogna’s head splattered against the ground, his daggers smeared in red. “They aren’t going to make you breed for them.”

“ _You_ are the one who keeps comparing us to their dogs.” Astrid lets out this bitter half-laugh. “What if… what if one day, _he—_ ”

“No,” Wulf interjects, watching to see if anybody is looking at him, his bright eyes searching the room. “It’s not going to happen. I promise.”

Astrid rolls her eyes. “How are you going to stop them?”

Wulf shrugs. “You’re the brains, Ishild.” He keeps his voice a little light, this sick facsimile of playfulness. “Think of something smart, and I won’t let you down.”

She watches him carefully. “… You won’t, will you?”

“Nope.” Wulf looks down to her, a brittle smile twisting his face. “Won’t you dance with me?”

Astrid hesitates for a moment before nodding, and he pulls her to the dance floor where others are swaying to the soft music. Her head is pressed against his chest, and he wraps an arm around her waist, and thinks, furiously, _I’ll take a page out of Bren’s book, and burn this entire place down if they try to touch you._ Maybe she can sense what’s in his head, because her grip on him tightens, and Wulf smiles.

They continue to dance.


	6. Caleb and Wulf + Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for torture and emotional manipulation.

Caleb flexes against his restraints, and he bites back his urge to _hiss_ at the flash of pain that comes as they _dig_ back into his flesh. He looks to Wulf, his lips curled into a frightened half-snarl, and Wulf smiles down at him evenly.

“Oh, Bren,” he sighs, and he lifts Caleb’s head up with his finger to Caleb’s chin. He feels liquid against Wulf’s grip, and wonders if the bands have dug in deep enough to cut into his skin and cause blood to trickle down. “This is _torture_ , it’s _supposed_ to be rough.” His cold eyes search Caleb’s face, and his lips curl, widening his smile. “You’re more terrified than angry.” There’s a tinge of disappointment in his smooth voice. “I was hoping for a little more anger, you know?” He sighs. “I was hoping you’d fight back more.”

Caleb knows his eyes are a little wet, and he blinks the moisture away. “Am I your dancing monkey?” he manages, and he’s glad he doesn’t stumble through his words—he doesn’t know what he’d do if he stuttered. Burn with embarrassment, probably.

“Ah.” Wulf sounds a little dejected. “No, we’re both more like dogs.” Caleb’s jaw shifts slightly at _dogs_ , and he remembers the torment of the black hounds ripping into him in his childhood. _Their_ childhood—Wulf’s flesh was being dug into right alongside his own. Wulf smirks a little at Caleb’s reaction, and he leans forward, brushing their foreheads together. Caleb is warm against Wulf’s skin like he used to be, back when their hands were intertwined under the cover of darkness. “Oh, darling.” His voice is tender. “Fight for me. Would you fight for me?”

Caleb wheezes out this broken little half-laugh. “You always want to _fight_ , Wulf.” His voice trembles like he feared, and his face and neck splotch red like he predicted. “I don’t…” He sounds uncertain.

“Bren,” Wulf whispers. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages, Schatz.” Caleb watches Wulf close his eyes, their foreheads still pressed against each other, and he seems a little sad. Wulf opens one eye and smirks when he catches Caleb staring. “There was a time when you would’ve done anything for me.”

Caleb stares, and Wulf’s hand on the crook of his neck pulses out necrotic energy. He lets out this breathless scream, his voice cracking and raw, and Wulf sighs. “Fight for me, Liebling.” He’s almost _begging_. “Show me this world, and Master Ikithon, haven’t broken you. Fight me like you did that night, trying to save your traitor parents long after the house was burning.”

“Wulf.” He’s so _tired_.

“Please?” Wulf looks at Caleb almost boyishly, an embarrassed smile playing on his lips. “I always forget to say please, don’t I?”

“You do,” Caleb murmurs, and he attempts to cast _Fire Bolt_. As he does, excruciating pain rips out from his arms, and he _snarls_ , feeling warmth start to leak down his arms in earnest. There’s this light metallic smell like iron, and Caleb is _intimately_ familiar with the sensation of blood. “ _Fuck_ ,” he manages, and looks to the pleased expression on Wulf’s face. “Are you happy now?”

“Am I ever?” Wulf’s face is tender. He kisses Caleb on the forehead, and Caleb fucking leans into it. He’s _missed_ Wulf, he’s not going to lie. The sick, dangerous creature under his skin, the one that should be locked up in an asylum forever, has _missed_ this. Wulf watches him playfully. “Ready to continue?”

Caleb takes a deep breath, and then nods. “Ja.”


	7. Fjord/Caleb and Wulf + Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for torture and emotional manipulation.

Fjord curls his body protectively over Caleb’s, a snarl in his mouth as the man tilts his head, grinning at them. _Eodwulf_ , Caleb murmured a couple of days ago, before the man took him for the first time. _Wulf, it’s you_. “Take me,” Fjord says almost desperately, and Eodwulf shakes his head, looking delighted by the torment in Fjord’s voice. “Why won’t you —”

The man stalks close, and Fjord curls his fingers in, drawing them into fists. He attempts to attack the man, but Wulf dodges easily, and uses Fjord’s own momentum to push Fjord face first into the ground. His grip is tight on the back of Fjord’s head for _just_ a moment before he lets go. Fjord can feel the damn _tears_ in his eyes smearing against the dirt, and his arms tremble as he forces himself up, to see Wulf carefully picking up Caleb bridal style. His cool blue eyes scan Caleb carefully, as if he thinks _Fjord_ might’ve hurt him.

“No,” Fjord hears himself saying, trying to scramble up but being too weak to. “No, no, no, no—” His voice cuts off as Eodwulf rolls his eyes and walks over to him languidly, smirking a little as Fjord jerks back, still on his knees. “ _No_ , don’t—” An ear-splitting scream rips through Fjord’s words, and he realizes it’s coming from himself. Fjord collapses onto the ground, Wulf letting go of his head, and there’s blood coming out from his ears and his nose and his mouth. The tears from his eyes make the ceiling look blurry.

Wulf shakes his head, still not saying anything, and he smiles down tenderly at Caleb, who stirs in Wulf’s arms and looks to him with wide eyes. Fjord feels a little sickened as he sees Wulf raise his hand and push back the hair in front of Caleb’s face, and then Caleb _lean into it_. Gods, Fjord is _nothing_ without his magic, _nothing_ with these _things_ on his wrists, killing his connection to his patron.

He sits alone in his cell after Wulf carries Caleb out. He doesn’t have Caleb’s keen mind, and his own blood loss and tiredness make it hard to track time, but he tortures himself with scenarios of what Wulf could be doing to Caleb. Cutting off limbs, making him bleed all over, twisting his mind and making him think _Fjord_ is the enemy… 

_Fuck_ , maybe Fjord _is_ the enemy. If he wasn’t such a useless runt, maybe he could’ve—he would’ve—Caleb would be _here_ , and Wulf would be _dead_ , and they’d be running off together. His hands clench, and he gathers some dirt off the ground. _Useless. Worthless. Weak. When Caleb finds out how little you could protect him, he’ll… he’ll…_ Fear wells up in his stomach, and he takes a shuddering breath. He’ll _leave_.

Wulf returns about two hours later, and deposits Caleb’s shaking body down onto the floor. Fjord races to Caleb, and Wulf eyes his limping movement for a painful moment, before simply smiling and shaking his head. He leaves, and Fjord reaches to pull back Caleb’s jacket, to see what they’ve _done to him—_

Caleb _jerks_ back against the wall. When he sees it’s just Fjord, he gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m… I’m sorry.” His voice is raw, and he’s trembling a little, looking at Fjord’s outreached hand. “You can’t… you can’t touch me right now.”

Fjord can see some red bleeding through Caleb’s layers, but he sits back, clasping his hands together in front of him. Caleb winces at the sound, and Fjord resists the urge to curl into himself. “I’m sorry.” His own voice is ragged and weak and pathetic.

“It’s alright.” Caleb sighs, and an almost dream-like smile spreads on his lips. “It’s… really alright. It was nice to see him.”

“Nice to _see_ —” He sees Caleb flinch at his tone, and cuts himself off. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Just me, I think,” Caleb says, his voice lilting.

“Caleb, you need _help_.” He looks anxiously at the blood spreading. “I don’t—”

“Just talk to me,” Caleb interrupts, his gaze far, far away. “Would you just talk to me?”

“… Alright.” Fjord begins to talk, and talk, and _talk_ , and he realizes at some point he’s in his _other_ voice, and he’s talking about Sabien, and he forces himself to keep going. Caleb won’t remember, he looks so fucking out of it.

Eventually, Caleb finds sleep, and Fjord sits beside him, still a respectful distance away. He leans back, allows himself to burst into tears for a horrifying moment, and then dries them. Sleep finds its way to him as well, and for once, he doesn’t dream of the ocean, and yellow eyes.

It’s fucked that he wishes he did.


	8. Fjord and Wulf + Gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for violence and gore.

Wulf’s hands are trembling, and Fjord watches him with flat eyes. He knows the half-orc doesn’t trust him. The half-orc is _right_ not to trust him, unlike that damn tiefling with her ribboned horns and dancing violent eyes. “You alright there?” Fjord asks, his voice a low drawl.

Wulf gives him a biting smile. “Fucking peachy,” he manages, exhaling through his teeth. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling it damp. He pulls back his hand, watching it stained in red. There’s dead bodies scattered around them, and gore splattered against the walls and pooling onto the ground. Wulf’s boots make a light squelching sound as he paces to one of the corpses, beginning to loot through the limp flesh for gold. His entire body is still filled with this nervous energy that makes him feel jittery and on edge.

Fjord watches him for a moment before he also exhales, slumping his shoulders. “I… think I may know how you’re feeling.” His voice is uncertain, like he’s unsure if he should even be engaging Wulf.

Wulf raises his head and his smile curls wider, turning half-feral. “Do you?” He looks at the silver tongued runt of a warlock with an even face, and Fjord flushes a little, crossing his arms. “No offense—or take offense, it hardly matters—but I don’t think I have _anything_ in common with you.”

Fjord scoffs and leans against the doorway, crossing his arms. His eyes watch Wulf carefully. “I think you… feel out of control right now. Weak. Powerless.” He averts his own gaze, and examines the bloodsoaked floor.

Wulf barks out a harsh laugh. “You think I feel _powerless_ ?” He shakes his head at Fjord, his face twisting slightly. “I think you may be _projecting_ , you fuck.”

Fjord shifts his jaw slightly. “Attack or be attacked,” he says, evenly. “Hurt or be hurt. If you aren’t hurting someone…”

“If you don’t shut up,” Wulf sighs, hands clenching into fists, “I might have to hurt _you_.”

Fjord is quiet while Wulf continues to loot the bodies. Wulf is a little disappointed, he _really_ wanted to break that fucker’s nose.

Ah, well. Fjord winces a little as he pulls off a bloodstained gold pendant off a corpse, and Wulf smiles. He’ll get a chance one of these days.


	9. Caleb + Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for torture and immolation.

Caleb watches with his head tilted, a smile playing on his lips. He feels… light. Light, and fuzzy, and pleasant. That floating feeling that comes from when he stares too long at a flickering flame plays in him, in his gut. It makes his shoulders relax in a way they haven’t  _ really _ , not since he woke up five years ago.

The man stares at him defiantly, his arms tied up behind him. His leg is slightly bouncing and his jaw clenches slightly—he’s filled with this nervous energy.  _ That’s good _ , Caleb thinks, distantly.  _ It will serve you well _ . He sneers at Caleb, his arms tensing like he’s trying to break through his restraints. “Let’s get this over with,” he snaps, his rough voice breaking through the quiet. Caleb’s own little smile widens. “I’m not telling you  _ shit _ so—” An ear-splitting scream works through his throat, and Caleb watches curiously as he splays his own hands out with his thumbs out and casts  _ Burning Hands _ . The man screams as the fire rips through him, burning at his clothes.

Caleb gets up from his own chair. “That’s alright,” he murmurs, picking up the towel on his lap and gently smothering the flames with it. The man has slight moisture in his eyes, and Caleb reaches out with a burnt, ruined thumb to wipe it away for him. “Don’t be rude, you’ll be punished.” He sighs. “If you keep swearing and shouting, he’ll come, and he’s even meaner than me, you  _ know _ this.”

The man’s eyebrows furrow. “What are—”

Caleb puts a finger against the man’s lips in a  _ shush _ gesture, and the man whitens, trying to pull back from Caleb’s touch. “I suggest you tell the truth,” he whispers, smearing some oil on his lower lip. The man’s eyes glaze over slightly, and then he glares at Caleb. “What’s your name?”

“ _ Fuck _ off—” He cuts himself as Caleb pulls out the dagger strapped to his belt and looks to it consideringly. “I’m not turning, so don’t even bother to”—he  _ hisses _ but doesn’t allow the dagger tearing into his knee to make him trail off this time”— _ that’s good, don’t let the theatrics distract you, my boy _ —“bother to interrogate me, okay?”

“I’m not asking you to turn,” Caleb sighs. “Just tell me your  _ name _ . Names are important.” He looks at the man with a raised eyebrow. “Did you know, in Zemnian mythology, saying a monster’s name invites them into your home?” The man stares at him, his arms trembling a little despite himself, and Caleb gives him an almost bashful smile. “My name is Caleb Widogast.”

The man averts his gaze, evidently deciding engaging with Caleb will only cause for him to reveal his own cards, and Caleb shakes his head a little to himself. He realized this far too late, but maybe he’ll know better next time.  _ Caleb _ certainly did. He puts his hand on the hilt of the dagger and pushes  _ down _ , and the man lets out this low hiss, and it’s comforting and triggering and familiar. The sound of metal against flesh is… it’s… 

Caleb puts his hands out with his thumbs touching again, and the man winces, looking a little terrified. “No, no, no,” he stutters. “Listen, you—” He cuts himself off again, and lets out this guttural, almost animalistic noise as he feels the flames on him. Caleb leans back in his chair, watching with flat eyes, watching the skin turn this molten back, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of flesh burning. “ _ No _ ,” the man screams, as the flames begin to cascade up his face. “Listen, I have  _ money _ , you don’t have to—”

Caleb’s hands bunch up the cloth of his trousers, and there’s something in his face that causes the man’s shaking voice to falter. “You’re so stubborn, Eodwulf,” Caleb whispers. “If you won’t—please, just give him what he wants, this is painful to watch.”

The man stares at him, and then the fire’s on his hair, on his  _ face _ , and he snarls, “ _ Fuck _ , it’s  _ Hans _ , my name is Hans, please,  _ I have a daughter _ .”

Caleb gets up slowly, and walks over languidly to Hans’ burning body. It looks blackened in the flickering orange-yellow-red light, and it’s… it’s very pretty. He gently begins to smother the flames again, and Hans is swearing, hissing,  _ begging _ , until the last of the fire is extinguished. He winces as Caleb comes close, and rests his own forehead against the man’s raw, bleeding one. “That wasn’t so difficult,” he says, his voice soft and hazy and pleasant. “What will you make me do for a last name?”

The man blinks at him, and blinks again—Caleb thinks he might be blinking away tears—and he says, miserably, “Lockwood.”

“Good.” Caleb gives him a gentle smile. “Let’s get started, okay?” His voice is lilting, gentle, a little off-kilter, and the man nods, his movement hesitant and jerky and shaking.  _ Good _ , Caleb thinks, distantly.  _ You should be terrified, I certainly am. _

They get started.


	10. Jester and Wulf + Mischief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for references to past child abuse.

Wulf looks at the _leetel bloo tiefling_ watching him with a smile playing on her lips. Her bright eyes are positively _scheming_ , and she’s holding a canvas in her hands, setting things up. Wulf wants to maybe bark out a bitter laugh at this entire situation. “What are you _doing_ , Lavorre?” His voice is rough from shouting.

Jester tilts her head, and her smile widens. “ _Painting_ , of course.” Her voice is bright and she’s practically chirping. His dark eyes follow her uncertainly as she sets up her materials. Jester’s practically shaking from excitement, and he grimaces.

“You’re going to paint me chained up in this basement, powerless and unable to do anything to protect myself?” Wulf’s tone is dry, and he tries fruitlessly to move his hands, do _something_ , shoot a damaging cantrip her way, but _no—_ his hands are tied back firmly, and he’s beginning to realize he’s a little fucked. “You might be more fucked up than I initially thought.”

“What do you _mean_ , I’m _so_ normal, though?” Jester sits in the seat she dragged in, and looks to him expectantly. The light from the window near the top of the wall isn’t nearly enough light, but he supposes she has darkvision—it makes him fucking _uncomfortable_ , not knowing what she must make of his frame in the relative dark. “And I’m not painting _you_ , just… tell me what Caleb looked like as a _kid_ , okay?”

He raises an eyebrow, and she smirks. She’s real short, having to tilt in her seat past her canvas to look at him, and she reminds him a little of Astrid. He forces his face not to twist at the thought of her. _Gottverdammt_ , how could he be so _stupid_ , getting caught like this? Wulf gives Jester an ugly, half-feral smile with all his teeth. “Oh, fuck off.”

Jester pouts. “It’s for a _gift_ , Eodwulf. Don’t you want your _friend_ to have a nice _birthday_?”

Wulf blinks, and then sits back. He supposes it _is_ close to the third of Unndilar… “You want to fuck him or something?” He tries not to sound genuinely curious, and to repress that suddenly seething resentment building in his stomach. “You should know that forcing him to remember his childhood isn’t going to endear him to you.”

“He’s my _friend_ ,” Jester sighs, a smile playing on her lips. “Can’t I do a nice thing for my _friend_? _Please_ describe him?” She sounds so fucking hopeful. “I can’t do anything that nice for you, but maybe some cupcakes?” Her face brightens up. “ _Oh_ , or maybe _donuts_. Have you eaten _donuts_ before?”

Wulf pauses for a moment, looking at her curious face. He remembers Astrid shoving pastries into his hands from after she was allowed into town, rolling her eyes at his annoyed face at all the unnecessary risks she took on his behalf. “… I’ve eaten pastries before, Lavorre.”

Jester smiles. “So you know how _awesome_ they are.”

Wulf tilts his head, considering—there aren’t a lot of options to _escape_ , Bren has been careful with implementing his anti- _Scrying_ measures, and these restraints are even too much for _his_ magic… he’ll have to play nice with the tiefling with the sunny smile. “His hair was shorter,” he mutters, and Jester squeals as she searches for a notebook and pencil, frantically writing as he speaks. “Bren was paler than he is now. Real delicate skin, I hated tearing into it with my daggers.”

“Did you _have_ to?” Jester’s voice is a little hushed.

Wulf gives her a brittle smile, resisting the urge to scoff at all her empathy. _I’ve killed your brand of heretic, little trickster_. “He wore a red uniform. It was this crimson colour—a darker shade along the ends. His shoulders were more slight. He was wiry, and he stood with his arms crossed to stop himself from scratching.”

Jester writes, and Wulf closes his eyes to the sound of the pencil scratching the paper. “His hair was… short?”

“Master Ikithon forced us to.” Wulf sighs. “Didn’t make him less… less pretty.”

Jester stops writing, and looks at him with wide eyes. “ _You—_ ”

“I don’t,” Wulf _snaps_ , suddenly realizing how all this sounds out loud. “Oh, _no_ , I really _don’t_ —”

“You _dooooo_ ,” Jester giggles. “It’s alright, he’s a good friend. Good person to have a crush on, I think Fjord likes him _toooo_.” Wulf looks away and refuses to engage with her, scowling to himself, and she hums under her breath, beginning to paint.

They sit in silence, and Wulf tries not to hate her. Vollstreckers aren’t supposed to… supposed to feel, but he _does_ , and—

They sit, and she paints, and he _seethes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all can send requests to my tumblr, superman-unchained. No promises, but I love prompts.


	11. Wulf and Astrid + Missing Bren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic violence and self-harm ideation.

Eodwulf isn't a utility wizard. He's made this _adamantly_ clear the multiple times Astrid has caught him bleeding out after brutalizing the targets, an unnecessary amount of blood staining his clothes from how it leaks out his gashes as he gives her a brilliant smile. He smirks just a _little_ as she casts _Life Transference_ , pale hands on his sides as arcane words spill out past her parted lips. She casts and casts and _casts_ , runes materializing as the only healing spell that wizards get to learn passes through her. Her feet get dizzy as she pushes her own health into him, and she's blinking as she stumbles into his arms, his back straightened as she feels her head get light. "Necromancy," Eodwulf whispers in her ear as he pulls her up. "How positively _scandalous_ , Frau Ishilde."

"I'm not Frau _anything_ anymore," Astrid snaps, but the heat of her remark is lost in how _hazy_ everything seems. She can hardly hear Eodwulf's boots against the wet, sticky dirt _drenched_ in the blood of the brutalized corpses, can hardly feel the wetness of his wounds seeping into her nice mage robes as he cradles her close, the wind starting to pick up as Eodwulf hums absentmindedly under his breath. He looks at her with annoyance, she knows he doesn't like that she knows this spell, won't let him damn himself in that way he so clearly enjoys, but _fuck_ that, and _fuck_ him—he might enjoy destroying himself, but it's _distracting_ for her. "And you're not Herr _anything_. So stop acting like a drunk village idiot, and remember you're a mage for the state."

He _laughs_ at that, the sound brittle in the air, and Astrid narrows her eyes, touching his wound. It cuts him off, the threat of being further healed.

She leans forward, her hair sticky against her forehead from the sweat, kissing the corner of his lips chastely. Wulf is so _still_ that Astrid is reminded of that myth of the creator who kissed life into his sculptures. How fucking _apt_ that she kisses the life _out_ of him, but at least sculptures continue on into their not-lives. Sculptures don't bleed out in the snow. "I won't let you forget, Wulf."

There's a light pause. "How _nice_." Wulf breathes this out, his voice a little seething. She can see his breath in the night air, see the way his blue eyes glitter as he tightens his grip on her, continuing in his languid gait. If Astrid were more conscious she would pick this apart _too_ , ask him why he's so desperate to leave her with this, leave her with _him_ , leave her _alone_. "You've become the killjoy in Ermendrud's place." He kisses the top of her forehead as she leans back into his grip. "He'd be so proud." Astrid narrows her eyes and opens her mouth to hiss that she doesn't _need the approval of dead traitors_ , and Eodwulf rolls his eyes. "Ja, I know. Just a memory."

Astrid _hates_ the way he says _memory_ , hates how his voice lilts into something less polished, something that might come from a sprawling village with rolling hills. "Just a ghost," she mumbles. Her thoughts are getting bleary, streaming into each other as she exhales unevenly, staring up into the night sky, staring up into _infinity_. Bren always did like the stars, didn't he? Their first date was sneaking out the manor, walking through the field outback with their hands just barely grazing each other. He was always so _warm_.

"That implies the bastard never existed," Wulf hums. "We aren't lucky enough for that to be the case." He's smiling again, his face twisted bitterly. Wulf's mouth is open, like he's trying to decide what else to say, how else to fill the silence—Eodwulf doesn't _like_ introspective quiet, she wonders if it's because Master Ikithon _does_ , because that backwards bastard priest who holds domain over a shed of a temple in a pathetic little Zemni village _does_ —but Astrid is closing her eyes, and he _laughs_. It's a little less brittle than everything else about him. "Our past is real, Schatz, and if you insist on dragging me into every next dreary day, I'll make you look back and remember that fucker's red hair in the light."

It was like a halo. The last thing Astrid thinks before unconsciousness, curled up in Eodwulf's arms. Bren's hair was like a halo.


End file.
